


Laughter

by themyows



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Aftermath of ending a, Apology Sex, M/M, and sex, lots of guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themyows/pseuds/themyows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Michael truly does see a ghost of his past. (Ending A)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with GTA V simply because of the characters. Such a shame killing either of the three protagonists was even an option.

_There._

Out of the corner of his eye. There.

Right there.

 _Trevor_.

“Daaad,” whined Tracy beside him, pointedly holding her palm out, callus-free because she’d never worked a fucking day in her life. Her eyes screamed “gimme!” and were angry and cold. She didn’t want to be near him. She wanted his hundred dollars so she could buy some nice shit she would never need. Anything to get away from him. Anything to escape the loveless home he’d built for them.

Licking his dry lips, Michael wordlessly handed his daughter two crisp fifty-dollar bills, which she snatched from his grasp without so much as a “thank you”. Then she was out the door, slamming it shut, and happily strutting away.

He slowly returned his hands to the steering wheel.

“Good job on those two, by the way,” sneered a voice from behind him. His eyes prickled. He couldn’t speak.

Trevor’s burnt face smirked at him on the rearview mirror.

“Wonderful little shits, aren’t they?” he continued in his gruff voice with his light Canadian accent. Michael vaguely thought of dark oil fields and exploding Bodhis. He thought of gasoline. He thought of shooting it, lighting his best friend in flames and leaving him for dead without a backwards glance.

“T…” he choked weakly, eyes straining to hold Trevor’s cold gaze. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t blink. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. “T-Trevor…”

“You fucked me over for them,” he chuckled darkly, leaning closer until Michael could smell the gasoline. He wanted to turn around. If Trevor Philips truly was in the backseat of his car, mocking him, but so brilliantly alive…

“And now what?”

Michael opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t know what exactly, but something.

Outside, a car blared its horns. He was holding up traffic.

Blinking, he glanced wildly around to see a row of cars pass him, each driver flipping him off.

He looked desperately at the mirror and saw that he was alone.

The smell of burning gasoline lingered.

* * *

 

Michael loved movies. Truly he did.

Western especially, crime definitely, horror and romance he could do without.

Right now, though, his life seemed to be of the latter.

“Sugartits...” tutted Trevor disapprovingly, approaching him from his left, like he’d just barged through the front door. It reminded Michael of the day Trevor found out about Brad, the day they raced to North Yankton, the day they were ready to shoot each other. Michael almost wished they had. “Sittin’ around again, eh?”

Michael stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Trevor took that as an invitation to join him on the couch, and Michael was only too eager to let him.

Trevor was wearing the same clothes from the night at the oil fields.

He was bleeding.

“You want me to get that?” Michael managed to say, finally finding his voice. Trevor raised a thick eyebrow in question, then he followed Michael’s gaze to the obvious scarlet holes on his shirt.

“Oh these? Nah. I’m fine. Just fuckin’ _fine_.” He leaned against Michael and threw an arm around him carelessly. Michael froze and his breath hitched. Laughing lightly into his ear, Trevor blew hot air against his cheek. “Relax, Mikey. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Closing his eyes, Michael nodded. “Y-yeah, I know, T…”

“Good.”

When he opened them, he half-expected Trevor to be gone. Not patiently staring at him, waiting for a response. Almost shyly, he leaned back against Trevor. He let his eyes drift back to the movie for a split second, just as Trevor placed a charcoaled hand on his thigh.

“I ever tell you I loved you?”

Michael swallowed. He shut his eyes again. His heart hurt; his heart soared

“Yeah.”

“Shame. Means it wasn’t enough.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Michael reached out to cover Trevor’s hand with his own.

He woke up to Amanda angrily shaking him awake, telling him to get his ass off the couch and pick up the take-out.

“You’re fucking drinking again?”

* * *

 

Trevor peered almost concernedly at him when he opened his eyes. He looked healthy. He looked alive. There wasn’t a trace of burnt skin on him. He was fine. Michael blinked at him for several moments, disoriented and very, very bewildered. When he finally came to his senses, finally realized Trevor was there, right now, real and whole and not a fucking figment of his imagination—an illusion by his guilt-ridden conscience—Michael let out a small cry of relief and tackled him backwards. They almost fell off the bed but he didn’t care; he was too busy gluing his lips to Trevor’s and hoping they’d stick like that.

Trevor laughed into the kiss but kept him steady, wrapping his toned arms around Michael’s slightly pudgy waist. Michael beamed and grasped the sides of his best friend’s head, pulling him closer, desperately, longingly. He rubbed slow circles on Trevor’s cheek with his thumb, heart lighter that it’d ever been. Trevor tried to pull away—probably for air but fuck oxygen, Michael needed his lips _now_ —and Michael whined at the loss of contact. He gave Trevor two seconds to catch his breath before his mouth was on his again, demanding and eager.

That wasn’t enough.

“Fuck me,” commanded Michael in a hiss, tugging Trevor’s stained white shirt over his head impatiently. He scraped his fingernails along Trevor’s back in an odd display of possessiveness. He wanted to feel Trevor. Right then and there. “Take your pants off.”

“Cowboy,” added Trevor with a grin, but complied nonetheless. Soon he was ripping Michael’s suit from his body, a pleased smirk forming on his lips at the sound of expensive fabric tearing. Michael didn’t give a fuck right now though.

“As rough as you fuckin’ can.”

“Ya ain’t exactly a spring chicken, Mikey,” grinned Trevor knowingly, as he thrust into Michael without any warning or preparation. Michael cried sharply but wrapped his legs around Trevor’s waist and tugged him closer. It didn’t even hurt.

“Don’t you fucking let up, you cunt.”

“Feisty. Uncle T likee…”

Michael grinned as Trevor moved inside him, marking his core, painting his walls white. As long as Trevor was there and not incinerated by Michael’s own hand, not ashes scattered all over Los Santos, then everything was okay.

He desperately willed away the sight of a gasoline-soaked Trevor roaring his name while sprawled limply on the ground. He tried to forget how when Franklin hesitated, he—Michael—had been the one to shoot the gas and set his best friend on fire.

He’d killed Trevor.

The thought made him want to vomit and maybe gouge his eyes out.

Instead, buried his face in the crook of Trevor’s neck and begged him to fuck him raw and without mercy, to not give him even an ounce of sympathy. He wanted Trevor to tear him open and make him experience absolute pain and discomfort. He wanted Trevor to use his body and mark him and treat him like shit.

It was the closest he could ever come to apologizing.

It was the best he could offer.

He’d tried to kill Trevor twice in his lifetime.

That was unforgivable and he knew it.

“Trevor…Trevor, oh, fuck…T…”

Trevor grunted.

Michael moaned. “I love you too, you ugly fuck…I love you too.”

* * *

 

Trevor fucked him for hours. Maybe days. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care.

His back was killing him, but Michael knew he needed to get up. Amanda was probably pissed at him for being gone for so long.

“T?” he called lazily, reaching blindly for the other man. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked around for his best bud.

He was startled to see Amanda’s back instead.

It took a second for him to realize he was in his room, on his bed. Trevor was nowhere to be seen. Michael was fully dressed.

It had been months. Franklin’s name had been deleted from his contacts, but Trevor remained mockingly there.

Jimmy hated him. Tracy ignored him more than ever.

Ron and Wade wanted him dead.

Lamar probably did, too.

And Amanda just didn’t give a fuck.

To top it all off…

“T…no, T please…”

Trevor was just ashes scattered by the wind, floating around aimlessly on the dirty streets of a city he always hated.

“T-Trevor…”

_I loved you, too._

 

 


End file.
